


the cab driver

by TroglodyteMonologue



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Folklore, M/M, Mystery, Supernatural Elements, a little bit of, and, barkeep!keith, cabdriver!shiro
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-14 22:35:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28802922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TroglodyteMonologue/pseuds/TroglodyteMonologue
Summary: “Forget an umbrella?”Keith feels compelled to lift his gaze. On the other side of the safety glass, looking right back at him through the rearview mirror, are the most beautiful gray eyes Keith has ever seen. Like dark storm clouds slowly rolling over a churning, black sea. The driver’s long eyelashes flutter when he blinks and Keith almost feels himself slip into a trance.“So, where to?” the cabbie asks.Keith thinks his taxi driver might be one of the fair folk, a ghost, or something in between.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 76





	the cab driver

Keith is tired. Ever so tired.

The kind of tired that weighs on his mind, body, and soul; a heaviness that he shouldn’t feel for someone so young. He hides it well behind sharp grins and snappy comebacks, putting himself forward like a weariless renegade. He wears the unofficial title with great pride, like an invisible badge of rebel honor. And yet… and yet.

Keith isn’t sad. He doesn’t want to throw himself into the River Liffey. Though, maybe he should one night just to add a little spice to his life. Let the current take him out to the docks where he can get fished out by some burly men who can take the story home to their families and have a good laugh. At least Keith will have something to write home about.

No, he’s just tired. 

Tired of the sticky, stale ale that coats the bottoms of his shoes every night. Of grinding away at schoolwork and applications only to be turned down left and right for his bad reputation. Tired of having love and companionship slip through his hands. Of almost knowingly, willingly, self sabotaging himself left and right. He feels like he’s going in circles; doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. It’s the definition of insanity. 

Maybe that’s it, in actuality. An ache for something _more_. Something _different_. 

But he doesn’t know what that could be or where to begin.

So Keith continues the cycle. He goes to school during the day, works at the pub in the evening, and sleeps. Rinse, lather, repeat. 

“It’s dead, lad. Not even the tourists are out tonight. Go home,” his manager says after Keith has wiped down the clean counters for the sixth time. 

Keith doesn’t want to; doesn’t know what he’s going to do with that extra hour to kill when he only ever needs four hours of sleep a night. But the only person in the cozy, wood paneled bar is a regular half sleeping in the corner. So Keith has no reason to stay. He gathers his belongings, tugs the collars of his coat close to his ears, and goes out into the misty night cursing himself for forgetting an umbrella and his transit pass. 

The streets and sidewalks of the city are surprisingly empty. It’s eerie. Keith has walked the path many a time and the pubs are usually alight with music, chatter, and cars. Never has he seen it so quiet and deserted. The buildings seem taller; curving to loom over his head like gargoyles. The only noise he hears is the distant rush of water and his own footsteps on cobblestone echoing back at him. He likes the sound usually, but his footfalls by themselves seem so lonely. Like the ticking of a grandfather clock in a frighteningly empty room.

And is the inevitable nature of Ireland, the rain starts when Keith is least prepared.

It’s nothing that will fill his boots and soak him to the bone. Just a light, early morning rain. All the same, Keith huddles against the dense line of buildings, faithfully ducking under any conveniently placed awnings. As he rounds the third block, he feels the cold seep into his shoulders and realizes how far he still has to go. Keith wraps his arms around his torso, squeezing his elbows to keep the heat in his body.

A set of headlights flash in front of him, appearing out of the mist like a pair of glowing eyes. An illuminated taxi bar emerges next, followed by the outline of a black car. It cruises slowly down the street like a spectre, as if waiting for him to react. And Keith doesn’t usually waste his money on taxis. But tonight, when the weather and his luck is so rotten, he decides he will.

Keith edges to the curb of the sidewalk and waves out a hand.

The taxi stops and Keith scrambles to get in the back door. 

“Sorry, I’m probably going to get your backseat a little wet,” he says, slamming the door shut behind him and ruffling his hair.

“That’s alright,” says a smooth voice that lacks the expected Irish lilt. “Forget an umbrella?”

Keith feels compelled to lift his gaze. On the other side of the safety glass, looking right back at him through the rearview mirror, are the most beautiful gray eyes Keith has ever seen. Like dark storm clouds slowly rolling over a churning, black sea. Inexplicably mystifying. The driver’s long eyelashes flutter when he blinks and Keith almost feels himself slip into a trance. 

“So, where to?” the cabbie asks.

Keith gives his address on instinct and, later, isn’t entirely sure if he said it right. But the taxi starts moving and the meter starts ticking, so they’re headed somewhere.

Keith can tell the driver is tall. He seems almost too large for his car, broad shoulders peaking out on either side of his seat. Beneath a black flat cap is snow white hair, cut short at the nape. But, from what Keith can see of his face, the man has only the beginnings of smile lines forming at the corners of his eyes. The hands holding the wheel are youthful. No rings. Just a watch with a gold face and a black leather band. He’s older than Keith, but still young. 

“You’re not a local,” the cabbie says, “You here on holiday?”

His voice drips like honey and fills Keith’s ears like a song. Keith can only wonder why a man with such magnetism in his tongue and eyes would ever be a cab driver.

“Here for school,” Keith answers, using as few words as necessary.

Attractive as he seems to be, Keith has had a long day, he’s extra moody from the cold, and he’s not much for small talk.

“Ah, of course. What do you study?”

“Electronic engineering.”

“You must be sharp.”

“Sometimes.”

Keith expects that to be the end of it. Because he crosses his arms in an effort to convey his indifference. But after a few quiet moments of nothing but radio static and the patter of rain on the windows, the driver persists.

“You’re not as drunk as my usual passengers.”

“I work at a pub. Just got off.”

“Mm. That explains it,” the driver nods and Keith catches the glimpse of a scar — a jagged slash across the tops of his cheeks and over the bridge of his nose. Distinctive. Painful looking. “I worked in a few pubs a few years back. Besides the belligerent jerks I had to throw out on occasion, I liked it.”

“That so.” Maybe if Keith keeps giving non-committal answers, the driver will get the hint.

“I liked the stories people would tell me. Lot of interesting tales come from people who drink to forget about the world for a while.”

“I don’t like talking to people all that much.”

The driver locks eyes with Keith. “I had a feeling,” he says.

A pang of guilt stings him. Keith is being impolite. And the driver is just trying to be friendly. 

Outside, the city passes by; a blur of old stone, golden lit windows, tall oak trees, and etched pub signs. The roads are clear and the taxi travels at a usual pace, yet they haven’t even left the neighborhood where Keith works. He looks at the meter. It counts a reasonable fair. 

The silence is particularly painful.

“I’m sorry.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” the driver says, with a grace that almost infuriates Keith. “It’s one in the morning, not a lot of people are up for chit chat at this hour.”

Keith shrugs. “I’m just generally bad at it, too.”

“That’s very honest of you to say.”

“Being straightforward is one of my better qualities.”

“I imagine that quality is a double edged sword.”

“Very.”

The driver thinks for a moment, thoughtfully watching the wet paved road before him. “I find it refreshing.”

“We’ve only just met,” Keith counters.

“That’s the thing about first impressions. Hard as we try, people’s perceptions of us are usually very different from how we view ourselves.”

Keith clams up. He keeps putting his foot in his mouth. The cabbie is either being passive aggressive or attempting to give Keith a gem of wisdom. Or both.

“Sorry, I just… had a rough day.” He’s kidding himself, every day is rough.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Then, without a hint of judgement or ill will, the driver offers, “Would you like to talk about it?”

The notion is almost laughable. “Are you a therapist as well as a taxi traver?” 

“Therapist. Hair stylist. Taxi driver. It’s all the same,” the driver shrugs. “I’m a stranger to you. If you want, you don’t ever have to see me again. Isn’t that the safest kind of person to share something with?”

Point taken.

But Keith still hesitates. He fiddles with the strings of his hoodie and shuffles his feet. An ancient, faded coin swings from a gold chain on the rearview mirror. The tempo of its oscillation almost matches the hypnotic swipe of the cabs windshield wipers. Keith’s eyes follow the line of the chain up, to where the driver is looking back at him. He’s never thought of gray as a warm color. But now he’ll reconsider.

“I’ve been applying to internships all across the city. Got my seventh rejection today,” Keith finally says. He needed to tell someone eventually. It was likely to burst out of him in a fit of spiteful anger if he didn’t.

“That’s hard.”

“Yeah. They say rejection is all part of the process but… doesn’t stop it from sucking.”

“That’s very true.” The driver makes a noise; an understanding hum of sorts. “Are you good? At what you do.”

“Honestly?” Keith isn’t one to flaunt, but he knows his worth. “Very.”

“Then why do you think you keep getting turned down?”

Keith doesn’t have to hypothesize — he knows. And he should keep it to himself. The last thing he needs is for some taxi driver to gab to the wrong person and ruin the last sliver of a chance he has at a new start. But when the white haired man waits for him to respond, Keith feels called to answer.

“I came to study abroad for a reason,” he admits. “I was going to one of the top schools for engineering in the states. Had an internship that anyone would’ve killed for. My future on a platter. Then, I royally messed it up.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing I’m proud of.”

“And what’s that?”

“... I decked my supervisor. The V.P. of the company I worked for. Sent him flying into a glass wall.”

The driver lifts his eyebrows so high on his forehead, they disappear under his hat.

“He’s fine. Mostly. Walks with a limp now but… Yeah,” Keith sighs. He leans into the corner of the cab, muscles relaxing now that his big dirty secret is out in the open. He feels warmer now, and the seat feels inexplicably more comfortable than a moment before. “Got expelled. Got fired. Got blacklisted. Have assault on my permanent record. I hoped that my reputation wouldn’t make it over here but… clearly, it has.”

“I’m not a violent person,” Keith quickly adds. “Not gonna fly off the handle at you or anything.”

A grin reaches the corners of the cabbie’s eyes. “Good to know. Though, may I ask _why_?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you… send him through a glass wall?”

“He stole the work from my thesis project. Passed it off as his own idea. Got a four million dollar deal with it. Was my word against his.”

The driver goes noticeably quiet for a few moments.

And then, “... I probably would have punched him too.”

The sensation starts as a tickle in the back of Keith’s throat. It bubbles into a chuckle. In a matter of seconds, Keith is in a fit of delighted laughter. The cabbie’s joke isn’t that funny. Keith shouldn’t be laughing like he is. But a cable of tension has snapped somewhere inside his chest, worn away by whatever magic the driver and his cab seem to be working on him. It’s been a long time since he laughed so openly, so fondly. His body feels light. And the rain streaking the windows — a little less dreary.

When Keith’s giggles peter out, the student asks, “What about you? Why are you across the pond?” 

“Oh, I’ve been here a while. Lived a lot of places in my life. So far, I haven’t grown tired of this one. I like the Irish. They’re friendly and passionate,” he says, answering but also dodging the question. “I feel like you fit in just fine here, what with getting into fisticuffs with unfair superiors and a fearless smile like that.”

The flirtation doesn’t make Keith feel uncomfortable — because he works at a pub and it comes with the territory — but it does give him pause. Unlike the others, the cabbie’s compliment doesn’t come off as disingenuous or cheap. And although Keith’s pessimistic brain considers that it may be a tired line, the driver’s voice carries a quality that puts Keith at ease — makes him feel a little bit… special.

The driver reads his hesitation. “I mean that respectfully.”

“‘Course,” Keith nods. “I’m not usually a ray of sunshine, though. Haven’t had much luck in friends since I got here.”

“In my experience, luck has very little to do with making friends.”

“Now you’re really acting like a therapist,” Keith teases. The driver smiles. “But yeah, I know.”

“You could consider me a friend, if you’d like.” The driver shrugs, “We’ve had some pleasant conversation and you’ve told me some very personal things. I’d say that’s a budding friendship.”

“What happened to safely telling things to strangers?”

“Oh. You’re right. Nevermind. We can’t be friends. I take it back.”

He’s just so _charming_. Like a summer sun shower or a perfect cup of tea; everything about Keith’s mysterious taxi driver is just so damned _pleasant_. Keith hasn’t felt so many butterflies in his stomach in years.

“My name’s Keith,” he offers.

“Nice to meet you, Keith.”

The driver does not tell Keith his name. It’s a red flag he willingly ignores. 

They drive, the rain pours, and the white haired cabbie continues asking questions. Very _personal_ questions. And yet, Keith answers them like he can’t help it. Like he’s under a spell that makes the words and the painful truths spill from his lips. He tells the man about his desert hometown, about his small group of loyal friends waiting for him beyond the sea, and of his most pressing ambitions. The driver doesn’t share a lick about himself. But he listens like Keith is singing his favorite tune.

And by the time the black car has rolled up to the front of Keith’s old flat, he has all but told the driver half of his life story. How the timeline of eleven years could fit into a fifteen minute car ride, Keith cannot begin to comprehend. In fact, it feels as if they’ve been driving for hours. But Keith recognized every street corner and lane — he would have noticed if they had been going in circles. His eyes glance at the clock on the dash.

 _1:34 AM_.

“This is me,” Keith says and reaches into his coat pocket for his wallet.

The cabbie presses a button on the meter. The fare zeroes out. Half lidded eyes pin Keith to the back seat. 

“I’d say all those stories you told me were worth the trip. Consider it paid.”

The young man stalls, eyes darting from the empty fair meter to the driver’s eyes. “Really?” He expects a catch. There’s always a catch.

But the driver just nods. “Really.”

“Okay. Thanks. I guess.”

Keith steps out of the taxi and onto the wet pavement. Curiously, the rain has stopped and the crisp air is all but cold save for the hot exhaust billowing from the back of the taxi. Keith suddenly feels much heavier. And even more tired than before.

“Keith.”

The passenger side window rolls down and a strong hand reaches out, holding a card between two fingers. “Take it. Let’s have another ride sometime,” the driver offers.

Keith bends to receive the card and catches full view of the driver’s face for the first time. 

He is one of the most classically handsome men Keith has ever seen. There is an ageless appeal in the cut of his jaw, the height of his cheekbones, and his near perfect complexion. It’s the kind of face that should be on the covers of magazines or in films, not half hidden beneath the shadow of a cap. And, if anything, the scar adds something to his mystique. He’s all the more beautiful with it, than without. The driver’s eyes meet Keith’s directly and he feels so _seen_ that he instinctively crosses his arms over his chest.

“Can I at least give you a tip?” he asks.

The man’s smile is devastating. “No, but thank you for the offer.”

The window rolls up and Keith backpedals, a mixture of confusion, embarrassment, and awe flooding through his system. He waves and the silhouette of the driver waves back through the dark windows. Keith climbs the porch stairs to his flat, fumbling for his keys. He pauses for a moment to put the card away, glancing at it to look for a name.

Printed in fine gold lettering are the words ‘ _Anytime, Anyplace_ ’ with a phone number following and an antique coin icon in the far bottom corner. No name. No company.

Keith revolves to catch a last glimpse of the taxi and its driver.

But he's gone. 

No exhaust in sight. No retreating tail lights of a car on either end of the long street. Not a sound. Just an empty mist and a question that Keith can’t even begin to form hanging in the air. The city springs to life all at once. Like someone had put it on pause from the moment Keith left work to when he arrived home. A siren wails in the distance, a pair of neighbors scream at the tops of their lungs, and a gaggle of drunk uni students barrel around the corner singing something unrecognizable. Keith tells himself he's just imagining things and hurries inside.

And for the next week, the nameless cab driver occupies Keith’s every waking thought. His sultry voice and beautiful face; the strong cut of his shoulders and the flash of streetlamp light brushing over the tops of his knuckles as he steadies the wheel. The enigma of him and his magically appearing and disappearing taxicab. 

Keith doesn’t have the courage to call the number. He reasons that he doesn’t have to because he diligently remembers his transit card and umbrella each day. The little white card just sits in his wallet, calling him. Until exactly one week later, he breaks a tumbler glass while daydreaming and his co-workers point out his strangely vacant mood.

He tells them a vague, simplistic version of what happened to him that rainy night. They listen well because it’s not very often that Keith strings together so many words in one fell swoop. It sounds silly when he recounts it; too fanciful and enchanted to be anything but an urban myth. A nameless taxi driver roaming around the streets of Dublin, taking people home at the price of a story. Ridiculous.

And yet, one of his co-workers seems sincerely intrigued.

“He didn’t tell you his name? _Mysterious_ ,” says the purple haired hostess with a cheeky grin.

“Bit dodgy if you ask me. I wouldn’t go taking that cab again,” says Keith’s manager.

The girl’s eyes go wide. “Maybe he’s part of the _other crowd_.”

Keith makes a face. “The _other crowd_? What is that? A euphemism?” 

The pub manager snaps a bar towel over his shoulder and hooks his hands on hips. “She’s talkin’ about the fae. If you believe in that sort of shite.”

“Faeries moved a motorway,” the coworker says with a shrug, as if that is definitive proof of their existence.

“No, a bunch o’ country folk got superstitious about a tree, made a fuss, and the motorway got rerouted _around_ the feckin’ tree,” the manager corrects.

“Same thing,” she waves her hand. “Though he could very well be a ghost too. Did ya touch ‘im at all? Was he solid?”

Keith can’t believe how off the rails the conversation has gone. But his coworker seems to be invested and having fun, so he goes along with it. “I mean, he handed me a business card. I don’t think ghosts have business cards,” he says and takes out his wallet. Keith finds the token hidden among the bills and hands it to her.

She looks at the back. She looks at the front. “This is the card he gave ya?”

“Yeah.”

“There’s nothin’ on it.”

“What?” Keith swipes the card back.

Blank. Keith feels like he’s going insane. He must _seem_ insane.

The purple haired co-worker waggles her eyebrows. “Be careful he doesn’t _steal_ you away. Tha’s what the folk do, you know,” she says, “Though maybe this one’ll just steal your _heart_. Maybe tha’s what he’s aimin’ for.”

Keith punches her in the shoulder.

Later, on his break and in the privacy of the pub’s back alleyway, Keith hastily pulls out the card again. All the information has reappeared. Clear as day in shimmery, golden print. _Anytime, Anyplace_ ; a number and a coin. Keith rationalizes with himself. He figures he must have pulled out an old receipt by mistake. But he knows he didn’t. 

Keith wanted _something_ to happen in his life. And _something_ certainly has.

**Author's Note:**

> based on idea from @slamjamthnkumam!
> 
> follow me:  
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/trogmonologue) || [tumblr](https://troglodytemonologue.tumblr.com/)


End file.
